


Midnight Snack

by sugar_tits



Series: A Craving Satisfied [2]
Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2013-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-04 13:24:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugar_tits/pseuds/sugar_tits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written by anonymous</p>
    </blockquote>





	Midnight Snack

**Author's Note:**

> Written by anonymous

The lukewarm beer went down thick and sluggish. Trevor scratched lazily at his lower belly and waited two more knocks before sauntering over to his trailer door. Five hours had passed since he’d sent his last message; he’d imagined Michael having a miniature crisis - expertly concealed, of course - throwing his credit card on the table with shaking fingers, driving his family home in inexplicably tense silence. It wouldn’t be like Michael to leave them right away. He’d put on a fake smile, take Amanda to bed. Maybe even engage in some half-assed sexual activity. Just enough to get her to sleep. Then he’d tiptoe over to the closet, grab an unwashed pair of sweats and a tee shirt. Shoes he could easily slip on and wouldn’t make much noise on the stairwell. All in all, Trevor had estimated that Michael’s misplaced guilt and self-assigned penance of patriarchal obligation would take up a healthy chunk of time. It was almost 1:00 am on the nose and he’d made a bet with himself that the knocks would come no later than 2:00. So, turned out Michael was ahead of schedule. It meant he’d be ripe and ready to go.

Trevor held the door open with his pelvis and stayed silent, concealing a slow once-over with a swig of beer. He’d been right about the sweats and tee, but apparently Michael hadn’t even managed the patience to change out of his slippers. Trevor’s cock twitched in his briefs, the elastic shot, barely cradling the sharp edges of his hip bones. He turned away and walked inside. The scrape of Michael’s ridiculous footwear against his matted carpet quirked the corner of his lips.

"What can I get you?" he asked, more sneer than sarcasm.

"Fuck you," Michael breathed, so low it twisted in Trevor’s gut.

"Get on the bed."

There was a flash of defiance in Michael’s eyes. His jaw set tight, he widened his stance. Trevor licked his lips and set his empty beer bottle on the cracked linoleum countertop.

"You didn’t come over here for my booze or my conversation. Stop fucking lying to yourself, and stop jerking me around. Get on my bed, pull down your pants, and let me see that god damn prize-winning cock I’ve been jerking off to for the last ten years."

The honesty threw Michael off-kilter. All he managed was a quick blink and a swallowed retort before he capitulated. To Trevor’s mild annoyance, he kept his shirt on. But the sweats came down slow and easy. Christ. His sexual tastes generally kept him immune to the kind of penis-envy most men fell prey to, but Michael’s cock was close to fucking perfect. Trevor wanted it in every possible definition of the word.

"Jerk yourself off and finger your hole," he ordered, palming his hardening prick up against the crease of his hip bone.

Michael moaned - god, he was so fucking repressed it was pathetic - and did as he was told. He had thick thighs; his quads flexed as he pushed himself up into his fist and kept a halting rhythm. But it was when he sucked two fingers into his mouth, eyelids falling closed, that Trevor pulled himself free and indulged in a few quick pumps.

"Yeah, that’s right. Put them both in. Stretch yourself wide."

Knees spread, throat bared, Michael whined and finger-fucked himself with short, harsh thrusts. For a single, terrifying moment, Trevor thought they might both come before anything interesting happened. He let go of his dick and kicked off his briefs.

"Take off your fucking shirt, you look ridiculous. And get on your stomach."

A narrow-lidded glare, then grudging compliance. Michael was a pillow-biter. A natural, wailing bottom. But he’d kill Trevor if he ever said as much. That fucked-up dichotomy was what made him addictive.

"Want me to wear a rubber, sunshine?"

"No."

It was the answer he’d been expecting; Michael’s self-loathing truly knew no bounds. Trevor crept up and extended a cradled palm along a quivering, sweat-slick flank, then leaned forward until his lips brushed against the shell of Michael’s ear.

"How hard do you want it?"

Michael pushed back, trapping Trevor’s cock in the cleft of his ass.

"I didn’t come here for a tender fucking cuddle."

A quick grunt, the hard press of fingers against soft flesh; Trevor pushed in and savored the heated clench around him. How the fuck had he lived a decade without this?

"Oh, god," Michael hissed and rolled his hips. Practically begging.

"You’re such a slut."

He lined himself up and slammed in, thumbs pressed into the twin dimples at the top of Michael’s ass. The sound it made was filthy - like a cross between a slap and a squelch. Michael panted and buried his face in the mattress, fingers twisting against the yellowed bedsheets. He angled his hips down with each thrust so his cock head rubbed against them. With a dislocated twinge of curiosity, Trevor wondered if the meagre friction would be enough to get him off. Judging by the sounds being wrung out of him…

Trevor pulled out and palmed his dick, admiring the swell of Michael’s ass. The slick, pink neediness of his hole. His balls were plump and tight, cock hanging thick between his thighs. They were both a few breaths away from orgasm.

"On your back or in your ass?"

"Ass," Michael groaned and arched his spine, presenting.

Without another word, Trevor thrust back in. His arms bracketed Michael’s, biceps aching. The stink of Michael’s sweat was cloying; he swept his tongue against the meat of his shoulder and bit down. His calves burned and his world was obliterated by white. Michael yelled beneath him, strangled and desperate. Dick twitching, spent, Trevor fought to catch his breath. He’d counted at least six loads.

"Fuck. I mean, FUCK."

It was beginning cool, leaking in a thin trickle out of Michael’s ass. Trevor rolled over and held him in place before bending down.

"What the hell, T?"

He loved the taste of it. Michael’s shocked reaction. The feel of his tongue plunging into the soft, gaping hole. Licking it clean. His face was soaking wet when he finally pulled away.

"You are fucked up," Michael croaked half-heartedly.

"And you love it. Your life is a series of monotonous stretches punctuated by my depravity. Admit it, you live for how fucked up I am."

Michael was quiet, considering. Instead of a biting retort, he rolled onto his side and reached for his discarded clothing.

"Amanda will miss me if I don’t get back."

"She doesn’t know what she has," Trevor growled.

"And she never will."

There was nothing else Trevor could say without rehashing everything they’d already said. Instead, he turned onto his back and stared at the moth-shaped mould stain on his ceiling. The screen door banged shut without another word.


End file.
